Page 21 of Twisted Vows

The fear pounding through me doesn’t relent.

I can murder a scumbag in an alley, torture a snitch for days, and dispose of bodies without batting an eye, but the thought of this woman injured or in pain sends me into a spiral of panic.

I’m fucked. I can never let her go. She’s mine.

She’ll fight me every step of the way, but I’ll protect her just as fiercely as I protect Giorgio, Aurora, and Tristan.

Mia caramellinadug her razor-sharp claws under my skin, and the thought of extracting them fills me with despair. I yearn for more. More pain. More pleasure. Moreher.

Mia Rivera is mine.

There’s no escape for her.

Chapter 7

Emma Lanza

A disconcerting hollownessplagues my head. While it’s possible to die from a nosebleed, usually asphyxiation is the cause and not because the person bled out, so as scary as it is and as gross as I feel, I tell myself I’ll be fine so long as the bleeding stops.

With my wrists tied to the headboard, I can’t pinch my nose to stem the bleeding. I tried. My ankles throb from yanking on the ropes in my attempt to scoot higher on the bed, and even though I couldn’t get my face anywhere near my hands, splatters of dried blood cover my fingers.

I tried to stay calm, but with the blindfold refusing to budge, the gag loose around the lower half of my face, and blood pouring down my nose and throat, the claustrophobia was too much. Add in the memories I associate with nosebleeds, and I couldn’t hold it together. I’ll never admit it, but I panicked and made a bigger mess.

He was gone for so long, and I cursed him every second, but now that he’s back, I don’t have the energy, and a horrible sense of relief and gratitude flow through me. Even though he’s why I’m in this mess, I’m grateful he returned.

“No, you’re not fine. You had the fucking nosebleed of the century, but you’re trying to play it off as nothing.Dannazione,mia caramellina, what the hell am I going to do with you?”

His actions don’t match the anger in his voice. He snags a few tissues from the bedside table and gently pinches my nose while producing a knife from somewhere and cutting the ropes off my wrists. I hiss as the circulation returns to my hands, sending pinpricks of pain up my arms and into my shoulders, like ants crawling under my skin.

He lifts my upper half and settles on the bed behind me before pressing the back of my head against his shoulder. I push against his hand on my forehead and struggle to lean forward.

“Stop fighting me,” he snarls.

“I’ve swallowed enough blood already. Don’t tilt my head back. I’m gonna throw up everywhere,” I manage despite the nausea gripping my stomach.

He listens and leans us both forward while pinching my nose. I cough, desperate to rid my tongue of the coppery taste of blood, but my hands are too filthy to wipe my mouth. My captor jostles me for a moment before handing me a corner of the comforter. I suppose it’s ruined already, so there’s no point in using an entire box of tissues. After clearing my throat and spitting a few times, I wipe my mouth and take the first full breath in what feels like days.

Too exhausted to move, I lean back against his warm chest and just breathe, hoping a little rest will get rid of the hollowness in my skull.

“Has it stopped?” he asks.

His chest vibrates with his deep voice, startling me out of a doze. For a moment, I wonder how he knew my head felt weird, but then I realize he meant the nosebleed.

“I think so,” I croak.

He lifts his hand away from my nose and tilts me to the side so he can study my face. The crusty edges of my blindfold press against my cheekbones. I huff and brace my arm on the bed. My knuckles brush his hip.

“You’re filthy,mia caramellina.”

His tone suggests he’s trying to rile me up, but I can’t muster the energy. I take a deep breath and grimace. He’s right. Even without my sight, my imagination fills in the scene. We’re sitting on a bed in a puddle of blood with smears all over me. The stickiness in my hair grosses me out.

I’d like to say I’ve seen worse in the emergency room, but I doubt it. We don’t stock thick, absorbent blankets or real mattresses, and we never allow someone to bleed for so long without treatment.

When I don’t respond to his goading, he grunts, slips out from behind me, and hands me a bottle of water. As I drink, he moves around the room, putting a few things in the fridge before prepping the bathroom and turning on the shower.

He takes the empty water bottle from me and unties my ankles. I consider laying down but freeze in shock as he massages my calves while avoiding the blisters on my feet. He turns me into a boneless heap, erasing the tension in my legs with his massive hands.

When he scoops me off the bed and cradles me to his chest, I grab a fistful of his shirt.

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